


Hullo, Mr. Blue

by thewritingotter



Series: The trials and tribulations of social distancing [3]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Aziraphale Has an Anxiety Disorder (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Childhood Trauma, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Wedding Planning, social distancing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-24
Updated: 2020-04-24
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:33:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23812360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewritingotter/pseuds/thewritingotter
Summary: “This is crackers,” Crowley says. He hasn’t really stopped saying it since Aziraphale had, in between enthusiastic kisses, asked him for an April wedding. But it is April, Crowley had said then, dazed and red. After a long, significant look from Aziraphale, he'd continued, this is crackers.-- In which they plan an internet wedding.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Beelzebub/Gabriel (Good Omens)
Series: The trials and tribulations of social distancing [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1692232
Comments: 8
Kudos: 65





	Hullo, Mr. Blue

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much misseditallagain for editing my stuff! You sure know how to make the words... make the words... good? Yes, good.

“This is crackers,” Crowley says. He hasn’t really stopped saying it since Aziraphale had, in between enthusiastic kisses, asked him for an April wedding. _But it is April_ , Crowley had said then, dazed and red. After a long, significant look from Aziraphale, he'd continued, _this is crackers_.

“This is crackers,” Crowley says again, this time more disbelievingly, as he flicks through his wardrobe. “Absolutely crackers!”

“So you’ve said,” Aziraphale says where he’s lounged in their bed, Crowley’s sleek, little laptop in front of him. “What do you think of cream and green, my dear?”

Crowley stops rummaging, head tilted to the side. “Mmm. Not really my colour, green.” Aziraphale raises an eyebrow, looking pointedly at Crowley’s window stuffed with the greenest indoor plants of all of London. “Well, I’m not a plant, am I?”

He’d make a pretty plant though, Aziraphale thinks, tall and willowy with that beautiful head of hair. He tells Crowley this, pleased when that wide-eyed panicked look fades from his eyes. Crowley crawls over to him, slithering up the bed so he drapes comfortably over Aziraphale’s shoulders.

“Navy,” Crowley says, pointing at a navy-blue-yellow colour scheme. Aziraphale smiles. He can almost imagine it: sunflowers and forget-me-nots, bunties waving against the sky, tartan yellow and blue bowties, and Crowley in a navy suit. He takes a screenshot of the scheme, saving it in a folder he’d labelled _Home Wedding_.

“That’s one thing done,” he says happily, closing all twelve tabs he had been looking at.

"What're you lookin' at those for anyway?" Crowley asks, sharp chin digging into Aziraphale’s shoulder. He doesn’t mind it though -- Crowley does so love reading over his shoulder quite frequently.

“Ideas,” Aziraphale says, opening a new tab to google _wedding cakes_.

“Whatever for? S’not like we can have any of those things anyway,” Crowley says.

Aziraphale frowns. It’s odd, he knows; they’re stuck here in this flat until god knows when, with just the occasional trip to the grocers or the chemists for their necessities, but still… it stings. And it shouldn't, really, not when he should know the limitations of getting married in the middle of a pandemic. Aziraphale’s main flaw, one of his uncles once told him, is that he _wants_ , and he _wants_ a lot of things. 

Most of which he cannot have.

“I like looking at them,” he tells Crowley plainly. Crowley, who is probably the one person in the world who knows him best, must read something in his face. The taller man only presses kisses against his shoulder.

“Mmm, and this?” Crowley gestures to the grand cakes now displayed on his screen. “Planning to bake a monster of a cake, are you?”

Aziraphale laughs. They both know what happened the last time he’d tried to bake. “This,” he says, clicking at a five tier cake, “well, this is just for fun.”

Crowley reaches over, clicking a smaller cake with gold and dark blue adornments. “It looks like it has scales,” he says, eyes shimmering with wonder. 

Aziraphale imagines this cake under the romantic lights of a wide tent, like scales on an undulating snake. It would be lovely, he thinks, to catch sight of it as he and Crowley dance to a sweet song. He takes a screenshot and saves it. Turning so he's on his back, he arranges Crowley over his chest, tucking his head under his chin. Crowley humms happily. 

"Enough work for today?" Crowley asks, voice sleep-blurred. 

"It's only one o'clock," Aziraphale protests half-heartedly. "Much too early!" 

"Mmm, too much to do before the wedding," Crowley agrees even as he's sinking deeper into Aziraphale's chest. "Haven't even got a wedding suit." 

"You’ve a navy suit, have you?” Crowley nods. “You look dashing in navy.” Aziraphale can almost feel the heat of his blush through his shirt. Years later and his Crowley is still weak for compliments. A fact Aziraphale much delights in exploiting.

“I’d love for you to be in white,” Crowley murmurs dreamily. “White and cream and a little tartan bowtie. You’d be quite, erm. Quite angelic, if I do say so.”

Aziraphale hasn’t got a white suit. “Thank you, darling,” he says, nuzzling his fiance’s hair. “I know you’ve a thing for tartan.”

“Oi! I resent that!” Crowley says, batting away at him unenthusiastically. 

Aziraphale giggles. “Have you a penchant for them now, my dear?” Aziraphale taps his chin as he pretends to think deeply amidst Crowley’s weak protesting squawks. “I’ve a few extra tartan things somewhere. Perhaps we can do a trade, my darling? You in my tartan and plaid, and me in your leathers?”

Crowley growls, and in a flash, he’s pinned Aziraphale down, arms on either side of his head. “You dare insult me, angel?”

Aziraphale only smiles at him coyly -- Crowley’s weak for this one. The other man wavers, stern scowl trembling into a stifled smile. “You don’t like me in leather?” he asks. He knows better than to goad Crowley, but sometimes-

Crowley kisses him fiercely, pressing him firm into the mattress. “You know I like you in my clothes,” he whispers in Aziraphale’s ear.

Aziraphale takes him by the shoulders to pull him down for a short kiss. “Well-” Crowley swoops to steal another kiss from him. “Well!”

Crowley only grins at him, lazy and predatory. “Still too early?”

Aziraphale surges up to kiss him deep and a little bit filthy. 

“Anathema’s agreed to officiate,” Crowley’s saying as Aziraphale attempts to make him pancakes for dinner. The last batch was quite the disaster (they ended up burnt and soggy, and they’re both still unsure how that had happened). This new batch is going to be different -- he’s coloured them blue for starters. 

“She’s a fine choice,” Aziraphale says, dropping a knob of butter into the pan.

“Mmhmm. She officiated Hastur and Ligur’s wedding, remember? That was fun.”

Aziraphale chuckles at the memory. Hastur and Ligur had been on and off again for a year before, on a drunken lark, they’d decided to get married. They’d laughed their way through picking caterers, suits, and the cake (each, of course, suitably approved by Beezle because, really, if left on their own, Hastur and Ligur would be satisfied with quick vows in the pub), and had only once jokingly suggested getting married in the red light districts of Amsterdam where they met before deciding on a cute little barn in the outskirts of London. But when they saw each other from across the room in their wedding suits for the first time, they'd both cried so hard Anathema had to improvise for a good ten minutes to keep the wedding going. 

It was great fun. 

"They're on the list, by the way," Crowley continues as he takes a pancake from Aziraphale's plate. It's more brown than blue, but Crowley, bless him, eats everything Aziraphale makes with only a grateful, poorly disguised grimace. “So’s Michael, Dagon, and Uriel.” Crowley peers up at him from under dark lashes. “ _Even_ Uriel, yes. I know how you feel about Uriel.”

“She’s just _there_!” Aziraphale grouses as he takes his seat next to his fiance. “Always there like Michael’s shadow. She doesn’t even say a thing!”

“She talks plenty to me.”

Aziraphale deflates. “Maybe she hates me.”

“Aww, babes.” Crowley slings an arm around him, pulling him in for a greasy kiss on his temple. “She’s just intimidated.”

“I’m not intimidating!” Aziraphale says, even as a small but very visible part of him preens. No one really thinks soft silly Aziraphale is intimidating.

“You’re _the most_ intimidating,” Crowley says. “I couldn’t even get myself to speak to you when we first met.”

“You were in love with me,” Aziraphale teases, a pleased wiggle making its way to his shoulders. Isn’t it wonderful, he thinks, that he can say this to the person he loves the most.

“Mmm. I was.” Crowley squeezes his hand before he takes another bite of the pancake. “Angel, I think you switched sugar and salt again.”

“Oh dear.”

“It’s still… edible though?” Crowley says with a pained grin. It isn’t. Aziraphale sighs as he gathers their plates. “I know we’ve rules against takeaways but maybe this time-”

“Yes.”

Crowley smiles at him, catching him by the wrist to kiss the underside of it. “You are my favourite person in the world, do you know that?”

Aziraphale smiles back even as he rolls his eyes. “Yes, curry is fine, my dear.”

Crowley’s gentle smile widens into a grin. “Seriously, favourite person in the world!” He rummages through their pamphlet drawer, pretending to look over each of them even though Aziraphale knows Crowley has one in mind already. He’s a creature of habit, Crowley. “My mum wants in, by the way.”

“You’ve told your mum?”

“Yeah, haven’t you told yours?” Crowley turns to him, and there really must've been something on Aziraphale's face -- Crowley’s eyebrows knit in concern and he drops the pamphlets to take Aziraphale's face in his hands. He kisses his forehead gently. "I know we haven't really- not that it matters but- you don't. Have to tell your- Frances, I mean." 

Aziraphale draws away, fussing with his hair. It's all mussed and untidy, and he finds he suddenly needs it neat. "I know," he sighs, dropping his hands onto the counter behind him. "How- how's Lilith?" 

Crowley's shoulders relax, and after a brief, assessing pause, he reluctantly steps away. "She's fine. You know her, a bit irritated at everything, cranky old geezer. Hates that she can’t have tea with her other cranky friends. She- erm.” Crowley ruffles his dark, red hair, a bashful smile on his face. “She said the best thing I’ve ever done was ask you to marry me. Even if you are, in her words, a lost penniless little lamb.” Crowley frowns. 

Aziraphale laughs. He so adores Lilith even though she’s got a tongue sharper than Crowley’s favourite kitchen knife. He’s always been partial to stern old women. “She’s got that right, hasn’t she?”

“Hardly.” Crowley takes his hand, kisses it. “You've got me.”

Aziraphale smiles softly. “I suppose I do.”

“Anyway. She’s quite settled on having a hand in things. You know her.”

He chuckles. Lilith must be quite bored. “I take it she’s drawn a list by now?”

“Lists, angel, _lists_.” Crowley huffs a long suffering sigh. “She’s even got a guest list now.”

“Has she?”

“Mmm. Got grumpy Aunt Marta to come. Aunt Marta doing _technology_. That would be a marvel, wouldn’t it?”

An ache burrows itself in Aziraphale’s heart, a resentful little thing that he thought he’d gotten rid of a long time ago. “Has she even got a computer?”

“No, but cousin Asmodeus probably does. That nasty little twerp.”

“Zoom has a hundred person limit,” Aziraphale reminds him, wondering if nasty cousin Asmodeus is coming to their internet wedding as well. 

“Yeah, mum knows. Actually,” Crowley looks up, head tilted, “that’s something she’d like to talk to you about, but I figured I’d bring it up myself instead.”

“Is something the matter?”

“No, no, nothing serious really. It’s just- the matter of the guest list. It's weighing heavily on my side, is all, and she was wondering if you've family to invite."

There it is again, that nasty little creature, coming out of its burrowing to listen and clutch at Aziraphale's heart with its sharp claws. "Gabriel and Beezle are going to be there," he says fussing with the way Crowley's sleeves are resting on his wrist. Crowley's sweaters usually fit him well, if a bit tight around the shoulders and stomach and a bit long in the arms.

"Yes, they will be." Crowley gently takes his wrist, folding the sleeves like he always does -- casually dashing. “Mum is just- she just wants to know it won’t be unfair for you. You being a poor greedy gold digger and all.”

Aziraphale chuckles at that. “Your mum’s words?”

“No, that was actually Great Uncle Mammon. I don’t think he’s quite forgiven me for refusing to marry a Vanderbilt. He is _not_ invited by the way. Mum has decreed it.”

“I adore Lilith.”

“Mmhmm, I know you do.”

“I-” Aziraphale rests his forehead on Crowley’s shoulder. Aziraphale hasn’t got a Lilith or an Aunt Marta or cousin Asmodeus. He hasn’t even got a grumpy elitist Great Uncle Mammon, and that, out of everything ironically, has made him quite… quite tired suddenly. “I’ve only got Gabriel and Beezle,” he says.

“Mmm,” Crowley hums, stroking Aziraphale’s hair. “And that’s fine, love. You’ve got Anathema, Michael, and all of the gang as well. _Even_ Uriel.”

Aziraphale smiles. “I suppose Uriel will do.”

Crowley kisses his hair fondly. “And I’ll be there, you know that.”

“I should certainly hope so!” Aziraphale mock-gasps, dislodging Crowley’s hand from his hair as he looks up at his fiance. “Don’t leave me at the altar, darling, I would simply _die_!”

Crowley laughs. “You mean our dining table?”

“Oh, shush you,” Aziraphale says, even as he thinks he wouldn’t want an altar in his wedding. Ideally, it would be simple vows in a-- in a field probably, the wind in their hair and Anathema in a lovely dress declaring them married. A row of benches filled with Crowley’s beloved rich old codgers, and on Aziraphale’s side-

He tries not to think about that.

Crowley swoops down to kiss him, drawing away with a teasing smile when Aziraphale tries to chase his lips. “I know we said curry,” he says, “but what do you say about Nando’s?”

Aziraphale beams.

He wakes up with furrowed eyebrows, his arm tangled in his sheets the wrong way and that creature in his chest drumming a jarring little beat in his heart, and he thinks: today is going to be a feat. 

He reaches out, thinking maybe, yes, maybe he just needs a little cuddle, but his fingers only curl over cold sheets. Aziraphale sighs. Rolling over, he hugs Crowley’s pillow close, breathing in his Crowley smell. There’s only a faint whiff of it in the cold. He sighs again, as he sits up groggily. He’s the sort of tired that lends to a throbbing behind the eyes, but he knows that further sleep will only lead to more pain. 

Besides, Crowley being awake earlier than him is quite rare. This is best investigated as soon as possible.

Stretching doesn’t much relieve him of his sleepiness, but his back and joints crack pleasantly. It smooths his nerves somewhat. He eyes their closet cautiously. The suit they’d chosen for Crowley last night is proudly hanging, navy and neat. They haven’t decided for Aziraphale yet, but there’s still time, short it may be. Aziraphale isn’t really much for suits, but he’s got quite the waistcoat collection. Crowley’d said it would be fine if he wore any of them, even the checkered one Aziraphale knows Crowley privately loathes, but the thought that they won’t match fills Aziraphale with something not unlike dismay.

He swings his legs over to the side of their bed and pads to the closet. He raises a hand to smooth over the suit’s lapels, but he finds himself hesitating. Unsure, he backs away instead, wrapping his arms around himself. He usually likes to change his clothes when he wakes -- even on Saturdays when he really just opts for a soft sweater and a softer worn pair of trousers. Maybe- well, with how much of a trial he already feels this day is going to be, maybe he deserves a bit of a break. Maybe today, he can lounge around in his matching pajamas, read something suitably trashy but entertaining as Crowley plays his games. 

After a quick trip to the loo, he heads for the kitchen, already drawn to the warm smells of a sizzling breakfast. He doesn’t understand why he feels so off-kilter so early in the morning. Dinner was lovely last night, the company even lovelier. They’d watched a reality program on the telly (Crowley denies it, but he watches them obsessively) that Aziraphale can’t quite recall, what with Crowley insisting on tucking his head under Aziraphale’s chin and drawing circles over his chest as they’d cuddled on the couch. Sleep had gone as well as it could, that being nonexistent. Aziraphale lain awake for hours with invisible concerns fluttering all around him, his heart racing against his ribcage for no apparent reason, as though he _should_ be worried that he seemingly isn’t worried at all. 

“Morning, angel!” Crowley calls out cheerfully, expertly flipping an egg to a second plate. He points at a beautifully arranged English breakfast on the table with his spatula. “All yours for the taking, sweetheart.” Their kitchen is on the opposite side of the windows, but the sun shines through anyway, drawing interesting planes on Crowley’s face. He is gorgeous, Crowley. 

“This looks scrummy,” Aziraphale says, even as he finds he doesn’t have the appetite for it today.

“Made it special for you,” Crowley says, sitting across from him. "Even grilled you your tomatoes. _Grilled_ , angel, not roasted." 

Aziraphale smiles softly despite himself. They’ve had many morning arguments about the merits of grilled tomatoes (Aziraphale thinks it is sacrilegious to roast tomatoes for an English breakfast, a desecration of a time honoured culinary tradition. Crowley would just rather pop them in the oven, easy as he pleases). “That’s very kind of you.”

“Well, go on, eat up,” Crowley urges, picking up his own fork. His plate is more sparse than Aziraphale’s -- just toast and a fried egg -- and suddenly, there’s a lump lodged in Aziraphale's throat. He remembers watching his Uncle Sandalphon down plate after plate of food while he had a plate emptier than Crowley has now. _I’m teaching you a lesson_ , Uncle Sandalphon had said, crumbs scattered around his mouth. _One must not want for things they can’t have_.

Aziraphale hurriedly pushes mushrooms and half his bangers into Crowley’s plate. 

Crowley’s fingers wrap around his wrist before he can give his eggs and toast away as well. With his help, they lower the plate gently. “Angel,” Crowley says. “Eat your breakfast. I’ll be fine. You know I’m not one for early meals.” He doesn’t shove Aziraphale’s food back, but he does offer a piece of toast in return. Aziraphale accepts it, if only so that the deep furrow between Crowley’s brows disappears. It doesn’t really, but it does lighten some.

When he doesn’t finish his meal, Crowley only wordlessly plastic wraps it and places it in the fridge for later. After, he guides Aziraphale to their couch, gently cocooning him in blankets and soft pillows from their bedroom, as if he’s trying to smother the antsy little creature in Aziraphale's heart -- convince it to calm itself with love and downy pillows. Aziraphale has never told Crowley about it, but somehow, the taller man knows just what to do every time.

Crowley tucks Aziraphale's head under his pointy chin, and they stay tangled up like this as they watch Bake Off. Aziraphale quite likes Bake Off -- it’s calm and positive, nothing like the other reality programs Crowley likes to watch.

“I miss Mel and Sue,” Crowley says, “they were charming.” In the telly, Sandy and Noel manage to convince a contestant to part with some of her bakes and they scurry away with triumphant little grins. “I know you don’t mind the change in presenters.” Aziraphale was _devastated_ when Mel and Sue left, but he does quite like Noel. He tells Crowley this. “Have a bit of a pash on Noel, don’t you?” Crowley teases. Aziraphale only rests his head on Crowley’s shoulder, and the taller man obliges him, bringing a hand up to stroke his hair.

At one o’clock, Crowley’s phone pings and he leaves the room only to come back with his sleek little laptop. He fires it up, calls someone on Skype, and a second later Gabriel’s strong face appears. “This better be good, Crowley,” Gabriel growls, smoothing an errant lock of hair back. It must be quite early in America, but even with the shadow of stubble and the irritated scowl on his face, Gabriel still looks quite handsome.

“Don’t be a knob, Gabe,” Crowley says, a smirk on his face. Gabriel hates being called Gabe.

“Crowley-” Crowley turns to place the laptop carefully in Aziraphale’s waiting hands. Gabriel’s glare slowly melts away, shifting into a warm, pleasant smile. “Hello, sunshine.”

Aziraphale feels the edges of his lips lift. “Cousin.”

The couch evens out as Crowley stands up, pressing a kiss against his temple. “You have a good chat with family, angel,” he says. “I’ll get you your cocoa. I love you.”

Aziraphale smiles at him. “I love you too.” With one more kiss, Crowley leaves them both alone.

Gabriel tsks. “He doesn’t deserve you,” he says, leaning back to take a sip of his coffee. Aziraphale’s cousin is so American sometimes it hurts his tender English sensibilities. 

“He takes care of me,” Aziraphale says.

“That he does.” Gabriel makes a face, as if it pains him to say so. “Quite well, too. So,” he places his mug on a coaster, lacing his hands in front of him, “how’s the wedding planning going?”

“Oh you know how these things go,” Aziraphale demurs. The creature in his chest is stirring up again.

“Stressful, isn’t it? I swear it drove me and Beezle nuts half the time. Did you know you had to have _placeholders_? Why can’t people sit where they want?” This draws a smile from Aziraphale, and Gabriel seems quite pleased about that. “Not that you have to worry about that, eh, sunshine? You and your internet wedding. What will you kids think of next?”

Aziraphale’s hands are suddenly so cold and numb. He places the laptop on the coffee table and he sinks down into the floor to keep level with it, tugging blankets and pillows with him. “It’s a work in progress,” he says. 

“It’s ridiculous, is what it is,” his cousin, ever the blunt one, replies. When Aziraphale’s face falls, Gabriel is quick to continue, “But if it’s the sort of wedding you want, it should be the sort of wedding you get. It’s cheaper that way anyway.”

“We’re not hurting for money.”

“I know.” Gabriel shrugs. “It just is.” 

“H-how-” Aziraphale looks around for a distraction, desperate to change the topic. “How is- How’s mum?”

Gabriel frowns. “Aunt Frances? She’s alright, I guess. Got laid off, but that’s the hospitality business for you. No one’s staying in hotels with all this,” he waves a big hand around, “virus thing going on.”

“Yes, yes of course.” Aziraphale swallows around the lump in his throat. The creature is beating his heart so frantically he can hear it in his ears. “She’s… she’s well?”

Gabriel shrugs. “As well as she can be. You know her, always trying to look for something that’ll make her happy. I think she wants to do pottery next.”

“I’m glad. I’m glad she-” Aziraphale bursts into tears. Horrified, he buries his face in his hands.

“Oh, oh, sunshine,” he hears Gabriel floundering through his sobs. “I’m sorry was it- was it something I said? I know I can be mean sometimes I-”

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale blubbers wetly, “I’m sorry it’s not-” A fresh wave of sobs takes over him and he can’t quite stop his shoulders from shaking fiercely from the force of it all. He tugs his blankets closer, wrapping his hands around his knees as he presses his face against them. He doesn’t understand why he can’t just be happy with how things are, why he’s always so dissatisfied and disappointed and _wanting_. He can’t settle on things -- even when they’re things he’d thought he wanted -- can’t keep the ones he already has. He’s selfish and greedy, and oh lord, Crowley is marrying into this-

“Should I- should I call Crowley? I’m sorry I can’t just pop on over there, sunshine, but you know I would if I could.”

His sobs slowly die down into silent teary misery -- the sort of cry that can’t seem to stop, even though it looks more dramatic than it feels. “No, please, no, he’s already been so good today,” Aziraphale says wetly. “I- I can’t possibly disappoint him any further.”

“You’re not a disappointment, Aziraphale,” Gabriel says slowly, and when Aziraphale looks up, the tall man is holding a box of tissues at him. Futile effort through a screen, but sweet all the same. “Look, Crowley is… a lot of things, but he’s not stupid. He knows you’re amazing -- too amazing for him, even.”

“I’m a terrible person,” Aziraphale whispers, and he shakes again as another wave of sobs takes him over.

“Hey, hey,” Gabriel ducks his head down like he used to when they were children. Gabriel has always been so tall, and even when he loomed over him (and still does now, though Aziraphale has grown comfortably to a decent height as well), Aziraphale has never once felt threatened. He’s always felt so safe around him, so protected behind his wide shoulders. “What made you think that, sunshine?”

“It’s not Crowley,” Aziraphale says quickly between hitching sobs. “It’s me, Gabriel, there’s something wrong with me- there’s always been something wrong with me and I-” he clutches his chest, “I’m happy, you have to understand that. I’m so happy with him I sometimes think I don’t deserve to be _this_ happy. B-but then there are days when I-” he tears up again, “I don’t know why I’m just so _sad_.”

Gabriel’s face never wavers; he remains listening, sweet and concerned. “Talk to me.”

“Lilith -- Crowley’s mum. She’s drawing up a guest list. You know, Crowley’s Aunt Marta is coming to the wedding,” Aziraphale continues on, trying to be as brave as Gabriel. 

“Hope she doesn’t bring that pervert kid of hers,” Gabriel grouses. “Sorry, sunshine, go on.”

Aziraphale huffs out a surprised laugh. “He smuggled me gay erotica last time we saw each other,” he confides. “It was about an angel and a demon getting tangled up in bondage.”

“Heh, I see what you did there,” Crowley interrupts, placing a steaming mug of cocoa on the table. He cups Aziraphale’s face, running a thumb under his eye to wipe some errant tears. “You alright there, angel?”

His hand is cocoa warmed and smells of comfort, and Aziraphale can’t help leaning into it. “Thank you, darling,” he says. Crowley kisses him gently.

“Get out of here, Crowley, it’s family time,” Gabriel pipes up from the screen. When Aziraphale looks over, his cousin only darts a pointed look at Aziraphale’s angel mug. It’s silly, he knows, but Aziraphale loves it. Crowley had given it to him before they’d started dating, and Aziraphale remembers feeling so happy that his friend had thought of him while on a holiday.

Crowley rolls his eyes. “Okay, okay, I’m out of here.” He kisses Aziraphale again before he saunters out.

“I can’t believe you’re marrying him,” Gabriel says. “ _What_ a doofus.”

“I love him.”

Gabriel smiles softly at him. “I know. Well,” he waves his hand, _do go on_.

“I’m telling Lilith I won’t want Asmodeus in my wedding. He’s obsessed with Anathema.”

“Of course.”

“Anyway.” He tugs his mug closer, breathing in deep chocolate. Crowley’s even dropped in some of those fancy rose marshmallows Aziraphale does so love. “I’m sorry. I feel so- so terribly resentful and selfish for even entertaining these… these thoughts.”

“What thoughts?” Gabriel holds up his hands when Aziraphale frowns. “We don’t have to talk about them, sunshine, not if you don’t want to.”

“I haven’t got much else to talk about,” Aziraphale says lamely.

“Nonsense.” When Aziraphale stays silent, Gabriel continues, “So Beezle’s taken up cooking. I mean  _ someone _ has to, between the two of us.” Aziraphale huffs out a laugh. “Some of our favourite restaurants have closed, and we thought, hey maybe it’s high time to try to save up some money. Well, they thought that, I just thought it’d be hilarious to watch them cook.  _ My _ fussy little Beezle, handling raw chicken. That would be a laugh, wouldn’t it?”

Aziraphale smiles. “They’re going to be furious when they hear you calling them little.”

Gabriel shrugs, a wide affectionate smile on his face. “Well, they are. So little and so cute.” He sighs happily. “Anyway. There I was, kicked out from our kitchen, when they come in with this absolutely killer,” he spreads his hands apart, “this  _ massive _ turkey. I don’t think I’ve even seen one this big since- well, since our first Thanksgiving together, Aziraphale, remember that? That absolute unit of a turkey?”

Oh, he remembers, not because of the size of the turkey, but because, as far as he can recall, that was probably the first time he’d been allowed to eat however much he had wanted. That was a disaster of course -- terrified that he’d be sent back to starve in Uncle Sandalphon’s, he’d tried to eat as much as he could, and he had, of course, vomited it all back up. “We had stuffing and mash with it,” he says dreamily.

“Mom’s a master of her own craft,” Gabriel says. “Beezle’s turkey tasted remarkably like hers, and, oh man, this is embarrassing.” He cards a hand through his neat hair. "I ended up crying real hard into my mash. It was a beautiful night, you know, beautiful turkey, beautiful Beezle, and I ruined it all because I- I just missed mom  _ so much _ ."

Frances had never been a mum to Aziraphale. As soon as he’d learned to walk, she’d taken off immediately somewhere and had left him with her mum and dad. But they’d been much too old and much too frail to care for him, and he’d bounced around among her siblings -- from the neat and fastidious Uncle Raphael who didn’t want a messy toddler in his hands to Aunt Dina who punished him for learning things too slow and then, eventually to Uncle Sandalphon who had exacting opinions on greed and gluttony. And for the longest time, he’d thought he’d deserved it all -- being punished, being  _ starved _ \-- that maybe his mum saw something in him worth abandoning.

Then Aunt Mary came along from America, towing a reluctant Gabriel with her. She’d taken one look at her stick thin nephew and had decided immediately to adopt him, welcoming him in their home. She was a stern woman with a set of rules that Aziraphale liked to push and Gabriel liked to stick to, but she loved them both fiercely. Staying in their shoddy little flat, learning and re-learning what a family is, had been some of the best years of Aziraphale’s life.

“I know it’s been a year,” Gabriel says, cradling his mug, “but sometimes I forget, you know? I’ll find this old recipe for treacle tarts or see some Christmas ornament I know she’d like, and I’ll think about ringing her up. And every time I- realising she’s gone it’s...”

“It’s devastating,”Aziraphale continues for him.

“Yeah.” Gabriel sighs. “She gave her old cookbook to Beezle. Told them of yours and my favourite things to eat.”

Aziraphale knows this. She was so proud of her decision to bequeath it to her Gabriel’s spouse. Aziraphale's eyes well up with tears again. "I miss her too. Everyday." 

Gabriel’s smile turns wobbly and he sniffles. “Aww, no you’re gonna make me cry too!”

Aziraphale laughs wetly. “I’m sorry.” Gabriel laughs with him, wiping his own tears away. The creature in Aziraphale’s chest, though quiet, stirs its ugly head again. “I thought it was unfair,” Aziraphale says as he hugs his knees and blankets close.

“What was that?” 

“The thoughts I had. I know they’re terrible, Gabriel, but I-” his breath hitches in a sob, “I thought it was unfair that Crowley had so much family and- I know I’ve still got you and Beezle, and you know I love you two so very much.” Gabriel nodded for him to continue. “But the one person I wanted to be there, the one person I only really wanted to walk me down the aisle, is gone. And she can’t- she can’t even-” Aziraphale thought he’d been all dried out, but it turns out he really had more tears to spare. 

“She would’ve been there,” Gabriel says. “She would've been glad to walk with you. Well, so to speak, what with this internet thing.” Aziraphale laughs, trying to wipe away as much of his tears as he can. 

“I know. I just- the thought that she won’t be able to-”

“Yeah.” Gabriel smiles at him gently. “Well, one thing mom taught us was that we don’t need to stick to blood to find family.”

Aziraphale thinks of Hastur cheating at every board game they play and Ligur encouraging his husband all the way, of Michael who thinks everything must be proper although she can be quite improper on a night out, of Dagon’s cheerful laughter, of Anathema who hasn’t told Crowley she’s met someone she might  _ like _ like in the middle of the pandemic, and even of Uriel who might be intimidated by him.

He thinks of Crowley’s good heart, of how he’d reconciled with his family even after overcoming their demands and expectations to be who he wanted to be, to love as freely as he does. 

“You’re terribly right, yet again,” Aziraphale whispers.

“As I should be.” Gabriel leans back, pleased. “There are things only big brothers can teach that you can’t find in your stodgy old books.”

Aziraphale chuckles. “Oh, so you’re my big brother now, are you?”

Gabriel flushes. “I said no such thing!”

“That’s awfully sweet of you, Gabriel,” Aziraphale continues on airily. “I’ve always thought of you as such, you know, so protective and overbearing.”

“Overbearing!”

“Oh, yes. Scrutinising the boys who liked me, defending my honour. The sort of things older brothers do.”

Gabriel scoffs. “As if you need protecting. You chased them all off on your own, what with your being such a nerd.” Aziraphale laughs. “Had to beg the boys to date you.”

“You did no such thing!”

“I did no such thing.” Gabriel’s face turns serious momentarily. “Aziraphale, I know mom can’t walk you down the aisle. But, well, as your big  _ cousin _ ,” Aziraphale laughs, “I would gladly do it. Walk you down the aisle, give you away, or whatever the internet equivalent of it is.”

Aziraphale throws him a watery smile. “Thank you, I- I would like that.” Gabriel’s returning grin is just as watery, and the taller man laughs, wiping at the corner of his eyes.

“Well,” he says jovially. “So, tell me about your colour scheme.  _ Please _ tell me you picked green, Crowley is  _ horrendous _ in green…”

The creature in his chest is quiet for the rest of the day.

  
  
  


Sometimes, some things are better left said in the dark.

Aziraphale’s laying across Crowley’s chest while the taller man pets his hair when he ventures, “I don’t want a Zoom wedding.” Crowley’s hand stops, and Aziraphale feels that familiar guilt again. He hides his face in Crowley's shirt. "I'm sorry." 

Slowly, Crowley resumes stroking his hair, as if Aziraphale were an easily spooked animal. "There's nothing to be sorry for." 

Aziraphale frowns. "But there is! I-" Hes sits up, facing away from Crowley as he hugs his knees. "I wanted this," he says in the dark, "I wanted to get married as soon as possible, but now I- I want something else.” There’s so much more he wants to tell Crowley, like how he’s sorry he has to be so  _ sad  _ sometimes or how he fears he’s just like his mother -- never satisfied, never really eternally, consistently happy.

“We change our minds everyday.”

“But I shouldn’t!” Aziraphale says, turning around to face him. “I shouldn’t have to change my mind just because I- just because I realised that I want colour schemes and cakes and Aunt Mary- and- and-” He sighs tiredly, hiding his face behind his hands. “I’m being selfish, aren’t I?”

A slender hand tugs at his shirt. “Come lie down with me, angel.” Aziraphale complies, but only because Crowley, despite being quite slender and a tad too bony, can be really comfortable. 

“Why aren’t you angry?” Aziraphale asks, voice small. 

“Should I be?” Aziraphale shrugs. Crowley continues, “It’s a bit of a nuptial whiplash, I’ll give you that.”

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale says again.

“Don’t… don’t be.” He pulls Aziraphale closer, pressing a kiss against his temple. “I’ve got to admit, angel, I don’t mind postponing the wedding. Well, as long as there’s still a wedding to be had?”

“Of course!” Aziraphale is quick to reply. “Of course I- Crowley, cancelling was never on the table.”

Crowley’s shoulders relax. “Oh, yes, yes, just- just making sure.”

“Do you-?”

“I still want to marry you, angel,” Crowley says hurriedly. “I’m not an idiot, I know I lucked out with you.”

“I lucked out with  _ you _ ,” Aziraphale says earnestly.

“Aww.” Crowley kisses him again. “Also, Gabriel and Beezle will absolutely have my head if I leave you at the altar.”

“I wouldn’t want an altar,” Aziraphale tells him. 

“Oh yeah?” Aziraphale nods against his shirt. “No church wedding, I take it?”

“Too many walls,” Aziraphale says, pleased when Crowley chuckles at that. “What would you like? For our wedding.”

Crowley shrugs, his shirt shifting under Aziraphale’s cheek. “Oh, I don’t know. As long as it’s you standing across from me at the  _ not-altar _ , I’ll be perfectly happy.”

Aziraphale frowns. “ _ Surely _ , you’re in want of something.”

“Oh yes, I, a single man in possession of- what was it, great wealth? I must be in want of a wife.  _ Husband _ . A handsome husband with curly locks.” He snickers to himself.

Aziraphale rolls his eyes even as he smiles at his silly fiance. “Must you?”

“I must! For England!” Crowley whoops. When Aziraphale attempts to roll away, Crowley only reels him in, holding him tighter against him. “You still don’t get it, do you, angel?”

“That you’re horrible and your literary references are distressingly awful?” Aziraphale says.

Crowley rolls his eyes this time, flicking Aziraphale’s forehead. “Ugh, for someone so clever, you can be so thick sometimes.” Aziraphale moans  _ owww  _ exaggeratedly and Crowley laughs as he kisses where he’d flicked him. “You know I- I’d give you the world if you wanted it.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale blushes. “That’s… that’s generous of you-”

“And don’t you go thinking that you don’t deserve it, because you do, you deserve  _ everything _ , angel,” Crowley goes on earnestly, “tartan bowties and all.” 

Someday, Aziraphale thinks, he will parse this conversation, break it into jagged little pieces that’ll feed his little creature. Someday, maybe Crowley will find a way to quiet it with more kisses and pillows, smother it in chocolate and hugs. For now, he finds it in himself to wholeheartedly believe Crowley, to admit to himself that he  _ does _ want and deserve heaps of fine things.

He kisses Crowley, lingering at the corner of his mouth to whisper  _ I love you _ in his skin. Crowley hums, pleased. “Are we happy-shaped now?” Crowley asks teasingly.

“That’s not- that’s not how you use it!”

“You’re ridiculous,” Crowley says. “Now, tell me about this wedding of yours.”

Aziraphale imagines bunties waving against a blue sky, a grand scaly cake, and getting married in a flower studded field. He imagines sunflowers and forget-me-nots, blue and yellow tartan bowties, and rows and rows of the family they’ve chosen.

He imagines Crowley splendidly handsome in a navy suit. He imagines being stupendously, eternally happy.

He wants all this, but all he says is, “You’re there.”

Crowley’s heart beats fast under his ear. “That,” he says as affectionate as Aziraphale’s ever heard him, “that I can do.”


End file.
